Nightmares
by starrycat05
Summary: Medea's boyfriend cheated on her. She killed him and his girlfriend. Two years in Arkham have mellowed her considerably - not to mention ten months of close contact with Gotham's favourite psychopath. T for violence.
1. Introduction

Hey guys, new story. I wanted to write from the perspective of someone who wasn't nice. This is what I came up with. Enjoy. :)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Batman or any of its characters. Only Medea is mine.

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><p>*<em>Ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present, a picturesque <em>_score of passing fantasy._*

**28****th**** July 2008  
><strong>

I'm staring up at the ceiling, contemplating the dull gray surface. That colour has surrounded me for two years now, and I'm finally beginning to get a little tired of it. I'd close my eyes, but that's no good. My guilty past is permanently engrained against the inside of my eyelids - I can stare at the gray ceiling panels or I can watch scarlet blood drip across my vision. Not much of a choice. A soft cough breaks the silence. I lower my gaze from the ceiling and look across the table. A short, slightly elderly man faces me, his eyes studying my face with something akin to surprise. I know what is going through his mind. It's a look I've received many times before. Lieutenant Jim Gordon has undoubtably faced many criminals in the fifteen long years he's been serving Gotham PD. I don't look like any of them. I'm a woman, twenty-four years of age, though I am aware that I look younger. I'm short and slight, and dressed in my two-sizes-too-large regulation orange jumpsuit, I look even smaller. What with that, and my pale, freckly skin and light gray eyes, I do not fit the well-worn psychotic killer mould. And that, my dears, works perfectly to my advantage. Even now, I can see the lieutenant thinking to himself that I belong in a college library, studying hard for final exams, not in this house of killers. He's obviously read my file, he knows what I've done...and yet the doubt remains. I feel sorry for my fellow inmates – none of them can pull off innocence like I can.

I've been taken from my cell for God knows what reason, suddenly deemed well enough to be trotted out and presented to this police officer like a performing animal in a circus. He wants something. And for some reason, he needs me to get it. The only question is what hoops does he want me to jump through?

"Miss Craven," he begins, with a glance at the guard who stands behind me, watching my hands carefully as they sit demurely in my lap, should they attempt to slip loose of the handcuffs restraining them.

"Lieutenant Gordon," I reply innocently, smiling, "How can I help you?"

Again, I can see surprise in his eyes. We're in Arkham Asylum, and I should be foaming at the mouth, not speaking politely and rationally. At the very least, I should completely refuse to tell him anything. After all, it's because of the police that I'm incarcerated here. Rebellion is what he's expecting. So be unexpected.

"Gotham PD would like to ask you a few questions regarding a certain recently escaped inmate..."

"You want to know about the Joker," I tilt my head on one side, watching his face for signs of confirmation. Gordon's lips tighten, and he appraises my face once again, more carefully this time. I nod calmly to myself, successfully hiding the suddenly uneven thud of my heart_. _I fix an expression of apology on my face, "I'm sorry, but I can't really tell you much about him, I'm afraid. You could try-"

The door behind Gordon's shoulder bursts open, and a tall man with thick blond hair and a square jaw enters, his eyes flitting over the people in the room. It's Harvey Dent, the viciously enthusiastic new Gotham District Attorney. Well, well. The powers that be have come to visit. He is clearly here to make sure fatherly Gordon isn't too soft on the criminal – me, that is.

"Sorry I'm late, Gordon," he says, briskly, searching around briefly and pulling up a spare chair.

"Not at all," I say, cutting across the man as he opens his mouth to reply. Dent narrows his eyes at me slightly and my smile widens to the point of insolence. I study him briefly, and with the information gleaned from this one glance, I consider every single way I can push him to breaking point, just with my words and my smile. With a man like this, it's not too difficult to figure out. What can I say? I can appear sweet and vulnerable when I need to...but, hey, I'm still an Arkham Asylum inmate and deranged criminal underneath. They've chained me up; but there's no muzzle yet. I can still talk. I can still _bite_.

I think that Dent can sense the danger behind my mask – he leans forward on the desk, examining me with an expression of complete and utter contempt. Hot anger flares through me, but my expression doesn't change. I am oh so good at hiding things these days.

"Medea Craven," he raises his eyebrow as he pronounces my name, "Unusual."

I shrug, "My father had a...penchant, shall we say, for the Greek myths."

The two men glance darkly at each other. Ah. So they know my father's history. Well, like father, like daughter.

"You could say that," Dent said, clearly choosing his words carefully. It's _wonderful _– the justice-loving freedom fighter within him hates the casual way I refer to my father's rather extensive murder spree; and yet, he can't risk turning me against him, because he needs the information I can give. It's a wasted effort - I'm not going to tell him anything. But there's no need to give the game away just yet.

"Do you know the mythological story of Medea?" I ask, making my voice vaguely inquiring. Inwardly I am revelling in the looks of hate and faint horror that immediately come over Dent and Gordon's faces respectively. An educated pair of men, I think they know the story, and I think they know exactly where I am headed with this. Ah, such fun I'm going to have with these two.

"She was a Greek princess, daughter of the King of Colchis, who helped the hero Jason to win the Golden Fleece from her father. She made the young demigod promise to take her away from her home and marry her, in exchange for her assistance in the trials he had to face. But Jason betrayed Medea, and despite the fact that they had two children, well, in my case, just one, left her for a young, beautiful princess. And well, we all know what happened next..." I trail off, watching the hard faces of the men. Revenge. That's what happened next. Oh yes...I let the silence stretch, then shrug and smile ruefully, "Ironic."

I see Dent's jaw clench, and congratulate myself on successfully disgusting him. What? They caught me, condemned me, locked me up and threw away the key. A girl has to get her kicks somehow, and manipulating a tight-ass civil servant definitely classes as entertainment.

"Though, clearly, I was a much better mother than my namesake – I didn't even come close to killing my daughter. So, what was it you wanted again?" I'm smiling as I speak, but now I can see that neither of them is taken in by my young appearance and polite tone. They know why I am in Arkham, and for the first time, they believe that I am capable of having committed my crime.

"The Joker," Dent says shortly, his face expressionless now.

"Ah, yes," I say slowly, once again hiding a small shiver. What is it that causes my skin to grow simultaneously cold and hot when his name is mentioned? Fear? Anger? Perhaps a lingering trace of something that wasn't love, but rather some kind of twisted perversion of that emotion? But consider. I am, as the good doctors so frequently remind me, an almost fully-fledged psychopath, and am therefore incapable of fear or love. So, how, _how_ is it that just talking about him has me trembling? "The man who's always laughing," I mutter bitterly. Dent leans forward, aggressive, predatory, picking up on the barely disguised emotion in my voice and willing to rip me apart to find the meaning behind it. I look up at him, and shrug again, forcing my expression to relax, "Two months since he broke out, isn't it?" I query (as if I haven't been counting the days and thanking whatever lucky stars I have that I'm alive to count them), "I'm disappointed, lieutenant. Letting such a dangerous criminal roam Gotham's underprotected streets..."

Dent grinds his teeth together, "Well, we're looking for him now, Miss Craven."

"But you need my help," I say, raising my eyebrows, "dear, dear. My faith in Gotham's finest is reaching an all time low here." This time, I get no response from either man. And that's good. It means that I'm back in control. Smug, I give my head a regretful shake, "As I was saying to the lieutenant just before you arrived, Mr. Dent, I'm afraid I can't really help you. I didn't really know much about the man, other than he was a complete psychopath." '_Oh, you liar..._'

"On the contrary, Miss Craven," Dent says, pulling a large buff-coloured file from somewhere and flipping it open. From it he takes a sheet of paper, and several glossy photographs. "We have it on good authority that you had a...close...relationship with the clown."

He shoves the photos towards me, and I take them silently. The power in the room shifts yet again as the two men watch me - because as much as I want to laugh and throw Dent's pretentiously shiny, blown-up photographs back in his face, I can't let go of them. The shots are clearly taken from the CCTV cameras scattered through every room in Arkham. The first is of Joker and I sitting next to each other in the uncomfortable holding pen better known as the 'recreation room'. My stomach lurches unpleasantly. The image appears intimate, with that freak leaning towards me to whisper in my ear, his hand resting possessively on the back of my neck. I remember the feel of his hand; his grip was light, but I knew, I just _knew_, that if I moved even an inch, it would tighten mercilessly. Yes, you can see, even in this grainy security camera photo, the tenseness of my shoulders under his hand. Almost without realising, my mouth curls into an empty smile. '_Close relationship._ _Fire your behavioural analyst, Dent, he's not doing his job right._' I cock my head to the side, and flick to the next photo. It's me, sitting passively in a chair, eyes fixed blankly on some point above the camera. Slowly, I reach up with my hand and touch my face in the exact spots where the bruises and cuts sit on the photographic me. I look up at Dent and Gordon, and am surprised to see pity on the face of the middle-aged officer. Fool. He doesn't have a clue what suffering is. Not like Dent. His expression is cold, unaffected. And I find myself loving it, the harshness that is twisting his classically handsome face.

"A close relationship, you say," I push the photos back towards Dent with my handcuffed hands, not bothering to look at the others underneath. "That photo?" I tap my mutilated face, "Would you call _that_ close? He did that to me because I wasn't quick enough to laugh at one of his insane jokes. I _disappointed _him, in his words." The two men glance at each other, and I lean forward on my elbows, allowing a sardonic smile to twist my face, "Well, he was easily disappointed."

Certain they are watching, I slowly turn my head to the left and lift my hair out of the way, so that they can clearly see the long puckered scar that falls from the right side of my jaw to my collarbone. It stands out against my pale skin in an ugly red colour, not yet old enough to have faded to white. "This was another reminder of my capacity to let him down. As I recall, he did it with a nail he found lying around on the floor somewhere. Somehow, he managed to just miss my cartoid artery, while still inflicting a tremendous amount of pain and damage. I think the doctors were astounded by my survival. Ingenious, don't you think?" I stare hard into Dent's eyes, forcing myself briefly to relive the pain of the cold metal being dragged roughly through my skin.

_I scrabble backwards towards the high stone wall that rings the exercise yard, my heart throbbing so hard it seems ready to burst out of my chest. My lungs seem to be on fire, my throat is lined with razorblades. One hand is cradled uselessly against my stomach, crushed and burning - '_My fault,_' I think, dazed, '_mine. I tried to stop him from hitting me, I tried, my fault..._' I spit out a mouthful of blood, and with it a small titter of hysterical laughter. The sound of it is even funnier, and I vomit up a stream of giggles that sound more like screams of fear. I look up. He stands before me, above me, the permenant grin turned into a leer by the genuine smile beneath it. Somehow a clear thought manages to push its way to the front of my mind - where are the guards? Then he's advancing towards me, tongue whisking across dry lips, eyes bright with anticipation and that thought is replaced with another. '_It's not real, though,_' I think, with a sudden calm, '_It's just a nightmare about your dad. You have nightmares sometimes, don't you Meds?_' My own internal voice mixes with the voice of my father, speaking from the past, from some  
><em>(nightmare)_  
>memory, burie<em>_d deep, from a long time ago...__and on top of that, in the real world, where there is a man standing over me with a two-inch long nail in his hand, there echoes a voice that is almost as real as my father's - _his _voice.  
>"You, ah, let me down,<em>  
>(you have nightmares sometimes, don't you?)<br>_didn'_t_ you, beautiful." His voice stops on the 't' of didn't, spitting out the letter with a frightening force before continuing._ His _voice, that odd mixture of stressed letters, little pauses and, of course, occasional bouts of strange, screamy laughter, "Let me down again. I ah, guess you don't remember what happened the, he ha ha, the last time you did that." He laughs now as I stare up at him, abruptly puzzled, because this can't possibly be _real_. I got away from my father didn't I? And I killed Henry, and so this can't be happening, can't be _real_.__  
>The pain is real. Oh god, the burning, sickening <em>pain_ that makes me want to puke. The nail is as cold as ice, the line it draws across my flesh is like white fire, and unable to stop myself, I scream. My working hand cups my throat, where cold is giving way to a feverish warmth. I find wetness there, and pulling away, see that my hand is stained with crimson. More than stained, I seem to hold a puddle of my blood in the palm of my hand. It drips through my fingers, and I fling my hand away from myself. Drops of blood splatter on the cement floor. I can feel my scream ballooning out of me, stretching my face, widening my eyes until I'm sure they'll burst. That thought is almost worse than the pain - and still, the scream claws its way out of my throat. It keeps on growing as the guards beat the Joker to the floor, as the paramedic hurries towards me. Time stands still, and I feel that my own mouth gapes so wide that it threatens to turn in on myself and swallow me. Then there's another stab of pain, this one in my forearm, and the screaming stops as blackness rushes up to meet me.  
><em>

The memory must show, because for the first time, it seems Gotham City's White Knight can't meet my gaze. Satisfied, I turn back to face them, smile back in place. "I was his favourite punching bag – that is the only point on which I would describe us being close."

There is a brief silence, then Gordon shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm very sorry-" he begins, but I slam my handcuffed hands down on the table, the loud clatter of the metal on the table top cutting him off. I am suddenly furious. He just doesn't get it, any of it. Oh, the things I have been through in this place, with that man, that _monster_ breathing down my neck every second of the day, giggling in my ear, stroking my hair only to suddenly grab a fistful of it and pull my head back hard, screaming with laughter all the while. Oh, he'd apologise later, stare at me with that crooked little smile that just begged to be forgiven, that puppy-dog face that seemed to make his scars melt away. "_I'm sorry beautiful, you know how things get a little, ah, crazy in here_..." And then, if a single little thing went wrong...Gordon's sympathy is pathetic, weak, his understanding meaningless. "Don't you pity me, you sweet, _idiotic_ old man. You are not supposed to pity me!" I am breathing hard, my hair hanging in my face, blood racing in my ears, "You are supposed to despise me, like he does," I say, jerking my head in Harvey's direction. "I can't tell you anything about the clown_, _so _I_ suggest you _get out_!" I snap to my feet on the last sentence, leaning towards them, my harsh scream echoing around the small room.

I catch only a glimpse of Gordon's shaken face before I am slammed into the table by the guard waiting behind me. By turning my head at the last minute, I'm at least able to avoid a crushed nose. I am held there, the side of my face pressed against the plastic until I hear the door swing shut behind my visitors.

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><p>Gordon blinked, startled by the girl's sudden outburst of screaming. He paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder at her, taking in the way her gray eyes, so clear and rational at the beginning of the meeting, were now lit with madness, bulging out of their sockets, her pretty mouth twisted into a snarl. She didn't struggle as the guard shoved her down, but the police officer noted the way her gaze rolled blindly until it fell upon himself. He could only meet her mad stare for a minute before he turned, uncomfortable, and followed Dent out of the room.<p>

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><p>'<em>Yeah, that's right, you'd better run away<em>,' I think with calm satisfaction as Gordon breaks eye contact with me, and leaves. In an odd way, I feel sorry for him. If I look like I should still be at school, Gordon looks like he should be a librarian.

"Come on now sweetie," says the guard in the surprisingly gentle tone he always uses on me, "You know you should behave better in front of your guests – and you've hurt your poor hands hitting that table." His voice is vaguely reproachful, "Now let's get you back to your cell."

"Right you are, Richard," I agree cheerfully, as he finally allows me to straighten up, his hands resting firmly on my shoulders. He leads me back to my cell, passing the rec. room on the way.

"Dear, dear," calls Jonathan Crane snidely, "We heard shouting you know; meeting not go so well, eh, Craven?"

"Honey, it was a veritable cornucopia of love, smiles, happiness and giggles. Ta, now!" I trill back as we pass the door. Mad laughter echoes down the corridor behind us. I roll my eyes.

Richard pulls open the door to my cell and gently pushes me inside, "You get some rest now, sugar, calm down a bit."

"Thank you, Richard, you're a sweetheart." I blow him a kiss as I sit down on the floor, propping myself up against the back wall of the room. Richard smiles fondly, and exits. I am left all alone, shivering and empty, to remember the ten months I spent under the Joker's power, all those memories suddenly brought back by Dent and Gordon's questions. Was I the only one here relieved when he broke out? No, plenty of the lesser denizens of Arkham were terrified of him too. I smile to myself, '_And they barely even came near him. Cowards_.' The smile becomes a giggle as I think about my two visitors and their questions. The police have no idea what they're up against. If they were going to catch him at all, it should have been when he first escaped. But they've left it too late now. I'm sure that in the time that he's been out, he'll have found plenty to amuse himself with - and once he gets hold of a 'project', he won't let go. I find their incompentence extremely amusing. I suppose there's always the Batman...but I doubt if even he is up to the challenge the Joker presents.

I shift where I sit, pressing the soles of my feet together in a meditative position. I'm tired, exhausted in fact, but I don't feel like sleeping. In fact, I doubt I'll sleep tonight at all. I prop my elbows on my knees and bury my face in my hands. Abruptly, a longing to see my daughter rises up in me. It's a feeling that's been nagging me more and more often in the two months since Joker escaped. Little Louise, my poor sweet child, the only person, besides my parents, that I have ever loved. Two years old when I killed her father, and another two years since she's seen her mother. There is only one way in which Arkham Asylum is not akin to a prison - but it's a crucial one. You don't get family visits in this place. The only ones who have any reason to see us are policemen and shrinks. The sad truth of our empty lives - in the end, the only comforters we have are the ones who put us here.

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><p>"<em>Name of Patient: Medea Craven<em>

_Patient ID Number: 199_

_Date of Admittance: 8__th__ January 2006_

_Date of Session: 11__th__ January 2006_

_Notes: Patient displays lack of guilt, or any emotive response when discussing the murders for which she was admitted to Arkham. She is able to talk calmly and rationally of the details of the killings, but when asked for a reason _why _she committed them, she repeatedly refuses to explain. Patient mentioned that she sometimes suffers from insomnia, but laughed when it was suggested this may be due to guilt. From this first session, I am able to reaffirm the diagnosis that Patient 199 is in the mid-to-late stages of developing psychopathy._

_Signed: Dr. Jeremy Sander"_

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><p><strong>23<strong>**rd**** October 2007  
><strong>

"See ya, doc," I give Sander a cocky salute, feeling vaguely surprised when he gives me a brief smile in return. He's been "treating" me for nearly a year now, and I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he's smiled at me. Must be because I saluted. Have I done that before? "It's been a blast, yet again."

"Goodbye for now, Miss Craven," he replies, scribbling something in his familiar black notebook. Oh, how much faith he put in that notebook at first. He tried to put me down on paper, to capture the cause of my madness with the usual questions: mother, father, life on the street, daughter, boyfriend...boyfriend's lover...but then he realised how ridiculous his efforts were. He could learn nothing more than what I chose to tell him - and I would no sooner explain the workings of my mind to Doctor Jeremy Sander than I would dance naked in front of him.

"Geez, doc," I say, rolling my eyes as I'm led out of the interview room, "you're so uptight. You've known me for like, a year now, I'd say you're qualified to call me by my first name." I know he'll never call me Medea, just as I'll never call him anything other than 'doc'. After all, we're only faking the cordiality that lies above the conversations; it's an act that we keep up to mask the fact that our weekly sessions are little more than a form of entertainment to me.

The journey back to my cell is slower than normal – my guard and I have to stop halfway there, as there is a man in a dirty suit being tackled to the ground, consequentially blocking the corridor. I watch with mild interest, amused to see that the man is laughing, his hands twitching spasmodically in their handcuffs. Giggles shake their way ecstatically out of him, echoing around the narrow corridor, bouncing off the walls and sounding just a little like screams. The guards fall back, unnerved, and for a moment, Arkham is in danger of losing its newest member. Three of them however, bravely daring their discomfort, edge forwards to lift the man to his feet. They rather helpfully turn him to face me, so that I can study our new inmate. I glance him up and down once, quickly, disdainfully. His frame is lanky, and pathetically skinny, his clothes grimy, his hair greasy, and for some reason, dyed green. His face is slathered with white greasepaint, in a way which I vaguely realise is meant to resemble a clown. His brown skin is visible in patches where it's been rubbed away; presumably in the scuffle with the guards. His dark eyes are crudely circled with black paint, and a grotesque smile has been scrawled across his cheeks in red. Underneath, thick twisted scars slash upwards from the corners of his mouth towards his ears. '_Ooh,_' I think, allowing myself a small grin, '_nasty._'

The man, apparently feeling my gaze on him, suddenly stops laughing, staring at me hard. He cocks his head to the side in a sudden jerk that reminds me of an animal, "Well, well, well, who's this little thi_ng_?" He draws out the 'ng' sound, almost drawling it.

His voice is odd: I can't pick out anything specifically wrong, and yet everything about it, the pitch, the accent, the emphasis...they combine to form something not quite right. Something...off. The crowd of guards around us glance at each other, clearly unsure as to whether they should reply or not. I decide to take the initiative.

"I'm Medea Craven." His dark eyes dart over me, quickly, lightly, never staying in one place for more than a few seconds, feverish in their intensity. I follow his gaze as it skitters across my hair, down my forehead to my eyes, along my cheeks, diving further and further down, past my lips to my throat, my chest, my legs, resting momentarily on my soft, nondescript shoes before flicking back up to my face.

"Hi, there. Are you, uh, in charge here, Medea Craven?" His tongue darts out and whisks across his lips briefly, his eyes still staring, bright and dark and fierce into mine.

I consider. I suppose in some sense, I have gained a type of fame, a sort of notoriety around this place. Currently the only female patient, I am also, at twenty-three, among one of the youngest. Despite this, I have never been attacked, never hassled by the brutes that hang out near the weights when we're all having fun outside. I often sit alone, surrounded by empty space, no one quite daring to come near me. I suppose this is how every kid with a famous father must be treated. And believe me, my father is famous, at least in Gotham's underworld.

"Not in charge as such, more...well known," I say, watching him intently under cover of a nonchalant shrug. His expression breaks into a delighted grin. He would look like a child on Christmas morning, if not for the grime and greasepaint. But before he can reply, my guard decides enough is enough: "Save the chit chat for the playground, girls. Get moving." I am shoved roughly forward, ending up so close to the man that I smell his sweat. I wrinkle my nose slightly, noting at the same time that it's not an entirely unpleasant smell. He smells warm and musky and exciting; he smells _attractive_. He glances at me as I pass, and slowly, deliberately, winks. I feel a shiver suddenly rake down my spine, and I quickly glance away from him, plastering a calm, detached expression on my face. '_Just a psycho_,' I think coldly, '_someone best kept away from._' All the same…

"Hey," I say suddenly, "can you dump me in the rec. room, please? I'll be good." My guard eyes me doubtfully. I smile sweetly, "Come on, I've been in my cell all week. Just a quick visit?" Behind me, those mad giggles have started up again. My skin tingles slightly at the sound of it; frightening and yet...interesting.

"Alright," he says reluctantly, "but if you cause any trouble, you'll be stuck in your cell a lot longer than a week."

"Of course not. Thanks so much," I gush, as he pushes me forward again. '_Perfect_.' Time to put my father's influence to good use. I pull up a picture of the new guy's face again in my mind's eye. '_Pretty distinctive looking guy...someone must know who the clown is..._'

"Save it," he snarls, tightening his grip on my arm briefly. It hurts, but only a little. '_Well, somebody's in a bad mood..._'


	2. Matyrdom and Press Coverage

**Shout-Outs:** Thanks to **CoconutMigration** and** my-beloved-monster** for reviewing.  
><strong><br>Disclaimer:** I do not own Batman or any of its characters. Only Medea is mine.

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><p><em>*And I believe that this may call for a proper introduction and well,<br>Don't you see, I'm the narrator and this is just the prologue?*_

**23****rd**** October 2007**

I glance around the rec. room while the guard undoes my handcuffs. It's a small, low-ceilinged room, lit by bright fluorescent lamps. The walls and floors are made of cold, bare cement, filling the air with a damp chill. Well, you wouldn't want us crazies to be too comfortable, would you? Two guards are positioned at each entrance, as per usual, though judging by the vacant expressions, I'd say the four of them are not too focused on their job right now. Well, that's just fine. More than fine, in fact. Scattered around the room are various gang members, murderers and rapists, some of them watching the small battered T.V. that sits against the far wall, some playing cards, and one or two actually stretching their minds so far as to read a book. Only some of them glanced up when I entered, but those that didn't soon receive nudges from their friends. The looks I receive aren't scared...just wary. Cautious. Normally, it gratifies me, the way that word of my arrival spreads. But today, I don't want to be avoided. Today, I want to use my reputation to gain something else: information.

"Play nice," my guard grumbles, jostling me roughly as he finishes unlocking the cuffs and pushes my arms to my sides. It's funny really - the way that men who have committed the most heinous of crimes are afraid of me, but these supposedly "good" men are not. Or perhaps they're just better at pretending. One day I'll get down to testing that theory. I look forward to it.

I smile sweetly at him, and watch as he stomps out of the room, slapping one of the door-wardens on the shoulder as he passes. '_Right_.' I swing back to face my fellow prisoners, narrowing my eyes as I make several quick calculations. Getting the information I want poses, not so much a problem, as a delicate challenge. I have barely talked to a fellow inmate in all the time I've been here. I allowed them to fret amongst themselves, figuring out who I was, the threat I posed without giving them the slightest hint...well, apart from a few well-placed rumours here are there. And now, lowering myself to start an actual _conversation_ with one of them may well ruin my reputation, rendering all that careful cultivation worthless. So how to pull all this off without breaking something that took a lifetime – not to mention several deaths – to build?

I make one more quick reconnaissance of the room, pick my target, then walk slowly, confidently, over to one of the two men reading, who is sitting in a plastic chair by a plastic table. I slide into the seat opposite him, noting with pleasure the way he shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. He's been singled out by the daughter of one of the sickest murderers ever to walk the streets of Gotham, and a double murderess herself. I don't blame him if he's nervous. I sit quietly, allowing the silence to build, watching him read, aware that his eyes are spending less and less time reading, and more and more flicking anxiously from the book to my face. Apparently what he sees there only serves to make him more uneasy, because he fidgets again, coughing slightly.

I don't know his name, or recognize his face, but then, that isn't saying much. Even if I did make the effort to communicate with anyone here besides my guards and doctor, this man has a face that would be easily overlooked or forgotten. His features are bland, of the sort that fade into the background, his hair short, his eyes a nondescript brown. His face is lined, but I guess he's actually quite young; and that's going from the way I can feel his leg trembling hyperactively under the table. Then again, maybe it's just nerves. All in all, a person you would never suspect of being involved in criminal behaviour. From that assumption, you would point out that he hardly looks like the type of person to know the identity of a clearly lunatic clown – and by doing so you would reveal your utter lack of understanding of the criminal classes. This man is a servant, an obsequious slave, one of those that follow orders and kiss ass to earn the protection of the head guys, because they know they'd be slaughtered in an instant without it. And while they're scurrying around, bowing and scraping before their masters, these small, mousy, pathetic men learn things. Important things. A man like this will be far easier to pump for information than any of the thickset, muscular guys that you, in your foolish naivety, would have targeted. So, with your education completed, we can continue. I cock my head and study my new best friend. I wonder what he's in here for. Probably threatened some poor innocent civilians, got caught and was subsequently diagnosed with schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder. Not to mention some kind of anxiety problem, going from the frankly revolting layer of sweat that is shining on his forehead. Hiding my disgust, I take a breath, and smile.

"Hello," I murmur quietly, pitching my voice lower than normal and leaning forward slightly to meet his eyes. My tone is pleasant, yet the sound of it makes him squirm fearfully, as though my simple one word greeting is a promise of violence. Which, really it is, though it wouldn't sound like it to you. Because that's the thing; it's all about subtlety. I drum an odd uneven rhythm on the table top with the tip of my finger. "My name's Medea Craven. What's yours?"

The man flinches, almost causing me to laugh with derision - I hold it back though, keeping my expression politely curious. Inside, I'm delighted: '_Jumping at shadows_?' I croon silently, '_Frightened of little old me_?' Yes, I made a good choice. I can tell from my friend's anxious expression, that he is clearly extremely sensitive to the balance of power in a room: he knows that I have him beaten, and now it's only a question of what I want to know.

As the man is clearly too nervous to reply, I smile softly and continue, "That's alright, don't worry. I wonder if you could help me." For the first time he properly meets my gaze, an assessing look flitting briefly over his pathetic little face. He's trying to guess what I might want, and how dangerous I'll become if he refuses. I could simply tell him and put him out of his anxious misery...but I think I'll have some fun with him first. I let the smile slowly slide off of my face, leaving my expression blank. "That is, unless you have better things to do...other friends to take care of." This time, there is far more than a suggestion of a threat in my voice; impatience and anger drip from every word.

My victim trembles, "No, of course not. What do you need?"

I relax, and bring my casual smile back. "Would you happen to know anything about a crazy who dresses like a clown? Oh, and don't worry, it's okay if you don't." I reach out and pat his arm mildly; once again, he reacts as if I had hit him. Sighing internally, I resist the urge to actually punch him – his cowering fear is very quickly becoming tiresome.

Apparently though, it isn't just me that's scaring him now. He looks at me with terrified disbelief, "Do you mean the Joker?"

I raise my eyebrows, my expression mildly surprised, "I don't know. Do I?" He gets the message, and quickly elaborates, "Skinny guy. Long-ish green hair." I betray nothing, keeping my expression deadpan. "Scars and face-paint?" He squeaks, clearly desperate for me to recognize the description and stop staring at him. I smile pleasantly, as if receiving some good news, "Yes, that's him."

'_The Joker,_' I muse, '_clearly a reference to the fac__epaint...or perhaps the facepaint is a reference to the name...or maybe he just chose them both on a whim_.'

"Why do you want to know?" My new friend asks nervously, breaking into my thoughts, "That guy's a complete nut-job, lady. I hear he's always babbling on about stuff that doesn't make sense, laughing while he kills people. Even the other psychos avoid him. You should be glad you're in here away from him."

My smile becomes sickeningly sweet, and I get to my feet. "Too late. He's our newest inmate. Thank you for your help." I walk to the door and request to be escorted back to my cell, still enjoying the look of panic that flashed over my little friend's face when I told him the Joker's back in town.

* * *

><p>That night, I am plagued by nightmares that are truly memories. My life is paraded before my sleeping eyes, an overflowing of blood and violence and death. I dream about my father. A montage of snapshot moments of excruciating detail of the man who shaped my life fills my dreams; I wake in the early morning, sweat beading on my forehead, my eyes staring blindly into the darkness. Just a moment ago, I was in a bright warm room, surrounded by lights...candles...<p>

_Birthday candles. It's my sixth birthday. My cousin Andy was here earlier, but her mom took her home awhile ago. Her daddy never comes to visit. I don't know why, but at six years old (as of that morning), it doesn't really bother me much. Now it's just me and mommy and daddy. I'm sitting at the small, crappy plastic table that seems to fill the whole of our small, crappy kitchen, with a beautifully iced birthday cake in front of me. I wasn't allowed in the kitchen all day. Mommy was hiding it, to keep it as a surprise. The dim pretty glow of the six chipped and battered candles provides a shocking counterpoint to the peeling table top, complete with coffee stains. But of course, as a child, the relative poverty that surrounds me doesn't mean much. My parents are opposite me, both of them smiling. Daddy stands behind Mommy's chair, with his hands on her shoulders, loose, flat, gentle. _

_Sometimes they're not like that though. Sometimes those hands close in tight, angry fists, and I feel like I'm stuck in a_ _bad dream because I can't make him stop and Mommy always cries, and sometimes I cry, and then those hard, rough hands, so strong and so hurtful, turn upon me...but they're not like that now. Now, Mommy is smiling, smiling because she  
><em>(hates)_  
>loves him, and that's good, because it's just love and not<br>_(fear)  
><em>anything else. And at six years old, I laugh a little, because I'm happy that my parents love each other.<em>

_At the sound of my laugh, their smiles grow even brighter, and distantly, I hear my father say, "Go on Meds, open it." I look down at my lap, in which sits a large box, its contents just waiting to be discovered. It is wrapped in newspaper, dingy, yellow and peeling, because we are poor, because this is Gotham City...but the pretty blue ribbon around it makes it beautiful. I undo the bow carefully, and lay it aside, before starting eagerly on the wrapping paper. My parents laugh again as I rip it; it tears so easily in my eager hands that I'm down to the box itself in seconds. Trembling with excitement, I pull the lid off...and jerk back, shrieking in fear._

I shake my head slightly, trying to control my breathing. Just a dream, I know it was just a dream, because I can remember perfectly well what was inside that box. A pair of shoes. Pretty shoes, unlike any I'd seen, apart from in a film I watched once when I visited Cousin Andy's house. Nothing terrifying, nothing at all fear-inducing. Shoes.

Somehow, I soothe myself back into a state of rest – it's not exactly sleep, but it's much better than pacing the walls of my cell like a trapped animal, nothing but a form of amusement for the guards watching the security camera footage. I lie there, not asleep, not awake, and definitely not thinking about anything, until a guard comes to wake me up. He bangs on the door. My head snaps around to the source of the sound and

_I'm nine years old. I'm standing with my back against the front door, a coat over my pyjamas. My mommy told me to put it on. It's been three years since that beautiful birthday cake, and six months since the pretty purple shoes my parents gave me more or less fell apart. And since then, everything has been getting worse. I'm older than I was, but even now, I didn't grasp exactly what it meant when mom told me that daddy had lost his job. Now I understand. It's watching my father grow more and more volatile, like an angry bear, ready to lash out at anything. It's watching my mother's eyes grow duller and duller, lost behind unkempt hair and dark purple shadows. And it's watching my parents fightin at two in the morning, flinching at each blow as though it was me who was struck. The sound of my father's palm on her cheek is deafening, a gunshot in the cramped hallway. I can feel my shoulders shaking, and realise I'm crying. '_Stupid little baby,_' my mind scolds harshly, '_stop that._' But I know I can't. Now mom is backing towards me, one hand up to ward off his slaps and punches, the other stretched out behind her and searching for my shoulder. I want to reach out to grab her hand but fear drawing attention to myself. If he turns his fists on me, there'll be nothing I can do to stop him. Still, I cower into mom as she grabs me, frightened of the raw emotions on her face, not to mention the already darkening bruises, the blood rolling from one nostril... "I'm leaving," she screams at him, "I'm getting out of here and I'm taking Medea with me! I've h-had _enough_!"_

_My father's face is vicious, brutal, his heavy breathing filling the hall in the echoing silence of my mother's shout. Abruptly, I want to know where my father is – the father that used to tuck me in at night, who once ate so much cotton candy with me that we both felt ill, the one that taught me to read. Where is he? Because surely this cannot be him. This ravening  
><em>(monster)  
><em>bear of a man cannot be my father. But underneath that is the far more terrible truth, that this man was always there, was always hiding within my father. That doesn't make any of my happy memories with my father less real...but the monster was always underneath, lurking, waiting to tear his way free. "You get right back here now," he says, raising one hand to his forehead. Somehow, my mom managed to strike a blow of her own, raking her fingernails blindly across his face. The sight of his blood on his fingertips only seems to enrage him further, "Right now or-"<em>

"_No," my mother sobs, "no, I won't." Her hand leaves my shoulder as she snatches wildly at the door handle. The door seems to swing open so slowly. It's open just wide enough for me to slip through – but it only gets that far before he digs his fingers into her hair with a bellow of rage. My mother is snatched away from me before I can blink, in a screaming, struggling bundle, her hand reaching desperately for mine. "Run, Meds," she whispers suddenly, and for some reason, by some magic, that whisper carries across the hall, over his yells, all the way to me with perfect clarity, "Run now." And God help me, I did. I ran even as I heard her screams tapering off to nothing, sprinting down the corridor, taking the stairs three at a time, realising for the first time that daddy was crazy. I burst out onto the cold, dirty streets of Gotham, slipped on the wet pavement and went down on one knee, tearing a hole in my already battered jeans. I'm up on my feet within a minute, and I dive off down the block, dodging passersby with unwitting grace. A couple of them look at me with curiosity – but this is Gotham, and this is the Narrows. Here curiosity not only killed the cat, it skinned it and ate it too - raw. So they look away, feigning disinterest. Personally I wonder if maybe someone would have helped me...if we had been anywhere else. When I allow myself time to catch my breath, pressed up against an alley wall, that thought returns to my nine year old mind, that traitorous thought that can't possibly be true...and yet undeniably is. '_Daddy's mad._' And close behind that earth-shattering revelation comes a second, '_He killed mommy. He killed her and he's crazy._' The tears burn._

The guard pushes my door open and blinks at the sight of me staring emptily over his shoulder and into the past. I feel a small shiver run the length of my body, and wordlessly lift my arms, waiting for the handcuffs. They're tighter than normal, painful even. I ignore it. The guard grabs me roughly and gives me a not-so-gentle push through the door that makes me stumble. I right myself without comment. He gives a small snort of laughter. I remain silent, even when he whispers sarcastically to a passing friend that: "Arkham's Princess is having one of her bad days." I don't know this guard very well. He's relatively new. His breathing irks me – a loud harsh rush, in through the nose and out through the mouth in a stale cloud that brushes the back of my neck. The slight whistling sound he makes every time he inhales cause another stab of annoyance. He'll give me a headache if he keeps this up. Even as I think it, he lets out a gush of air near my ear, this one touched with a sandpapery rasp. My fingers twitch. I don't think I've ever wanted to choke someone so much. We reach the cafeteria. Sloppy, non-descript oatmeal full of suspicious lumps. With my tied hands I hold out my bowl for a portion. The hulking idiot on kitchen-lady duty today slops a ladle-full in, splattering my hand with a few drops. An excellent excuse to shake up the thug, but today, I can't summon the energy to lift my head and stare him down. I move along quietly. Phantom images from my dream chase across my mind, blurring out the dull gray walls of this place. They get brighter, and bolder as I make my way across the room. I sit down and

_I'm huddled inside a large-ish crate, eyeing the world as it passes by with wary, watchful eyes. A large, laughing group of college students wander past, cans of beer in hand. I study them, eyes skipping across relatively well-dressed frames, looking for anything worth stealing. I've been on the streets for nearly a year now, and I'm no longer just a frightened little girl scrounging for food, running from shadows, cowering at footsteps._

_When I first discovered, once the adrenaline of my desperate flight had faded, that I had no idea where I was going to go, I panicked. My first thought, of course, was to go to Cousin Andy's. But, being a nine year old girl living in the worst part of her city, I had no idea how to get there. Even if my dad hadn't always taken care of me, my mom had, and she would no more let me traverse the Narrows on my own than she would have given me alcohol. I could have gone to the police, and several times, I came close. But every time I did, I chickened out. What if they asked me about daddy? What if they found him and put him in prison? Secretly, a part of myself considered this possibility with relief, even gratitude – and that, more than anything is what convinced me not to seek protection from Gotham P.D. What kind of terrible person would I be if I not only thought about letting the police take my daddy away, but thought about it with _relief_?_

_So, I stayed where I was. I scavenged, I hid, I ran when people came too close. I found this crate, my small island of protection in my third month, and hid there for three days. Eventually a need for food tempted me out. I committed my first crime; a small thing. I stole a bun from a hot-dog stand when the vendor was looking the other way. It wasn't particularly nutritious: cheap, unnaturally white bread that tore far too easily in my hands. I can't say I cared. After nearly three months of dumpster diving, it tasted amazing. It was a small piece of heaven in  
><em>(hell)  
><em>this terrible place. And of course, once I knew I could steal...everything became easier. I could find better food, not always, but sometimes, enough food to keep me alive, at least. That box, that crate, barely big enough to hold me, became my home, my base, whatever the hell you want to call it. I pushed it further into the shadows of the alley wall, lined it with scraps of coats and blankets I found, even went so far as to drape an old tarpaulin over it. This not only reduced the draught, but also camouflaged my box better than ever. And now, here I sit, listening to the people passing by outside, peering out past the edges of my protective cover, and look for things to steal. <em>

"Why, hello again, doll-face." I open my eyes to see the Joker – and am delighted to find even more to interest me. The greasepaint is gone, apparently too much for the guards, revealing a boyishly handsome face: bright fair hair, tanned skin, rich brown eyes. A face you could pass on the street without a second glance – or perhaps with one quick peek over your shoulder, just to appreciate its appeal. Apart from the scars. It might be those twisted ropes of ruined skin that give him that air of twitchy grunginess, but studying him, I believe it's mostly just him. The way he moves his mouth, the way his still slightly paint-smudged hand restlessly plucks at his trouser leg, the way his eyes skitter around the room, all give off a constant feeling of danger. It's as if he holds a permanent sign above his head: 'I could hurt you. And I'd laugh while I do it.' He's being walked across the room, presumably to be taken back to his cell, or maybe for his first session with one of the doctors. He's paused, and is leaning towards me. His gaze burns into my skin, sharp and intent. As I stare up at him, he licks his lips, a quick, darting motion, uncomfortably reptilian. Once again, I feel heat spring up beneath the surface of my skin, and instantly my clothes are uncomfortable, too close, too constrictive. I'm sweltering.

"Get moving, freak," his guard says, dragging him away from me. I turn my head to follow him, and after only a moment's hesitation, call out, "Hello again, Joker." My voice carries clearly across the room, and instantly, conversation stops, to be replaced by a fearful and disbelieving silence. I smile as I turn back to my oatmeal, enjoying the hasty murmurs that spring up as soon as the Joker leaves the room.

As if in accordance with my suddenly improved mood, the sun burns through the cover of smog and mist that cloaks Gotham city, meaning that today, recreational activities will be held outside in the yard. Excellent – I can look forward to seeing the weaker inmates being bullied into exceptionally violent games of tag. Clearly, the shrinks have been encouraging us to get in touch with our inner child. I smile, remembering how much I love sunny days.

The yard is full of bright, warm light – and pallid, sun-starved inmates of course. It's almost comical when we first emerge, the sudden change of light catching us off guard. I survey my fellow prisoners, and once relieved of my handcuffs, saunter calmly between the rows of men and stretch out on the one bench in the yard. It has been my place ever since I came here, and it is the one place I am guaranteed peace and quiet; none of the others have so much as glanced over since I claimed it.

Yawning lazily, I place my hands behind me, lean back and tilt my head, enjoying the sunshine. Across the yard I can hear that one of the other inmates – one of the bigger ones judging by his deep, troll-like voice – is shouting. His words are unclear, hazy in my relaxed state. I close my eyes. More shouting, dim, and distant and

_Sharp in my ear, his voice slurred by alcohol, "For God's sake, you little bitch, put the knife down!" The man's expression is desperate, furious, terrified, his voice shaking as he screams at me, trying to get control of things, get control of _me_. As I watch him, I gleefully realise that he's not used to the helplessness he's now feeling. That was always what _I _was supposed to feel. I doubt he's ever experienced a situation in which he hasn't had the upper hand, or at least been able to see a way to get there. But now, he's lost; stuck between the flashing blade of a knife and the dirty wall of this disgusting little apartment. Our daughter  
><em>(_my _daughter)_  
>isn't here. I took her to my cousin's. Andy dotes on her, after all. She makes a much better mother than I. Andy being short for Andromeda – a love of Greek mythology is the only thing that my father and his brother, my uncle, shared. It suits her; she's pale and pretty and perfect. Then again, my name suits me. Anyway. Back to my boyfriend: trapped. "Henry, Henry, Henry," I coo, flipping the kitchen knife in my hand. It catches the dim light of the single, uncovered bulb hanging from the ceiling, glinting menacingly. "It's not going to do you any good to shout. You knocked me up, and now I'm not good enough for you? I'm afraid that just won't do." I gesture flippantly over his shoulder. Because technically, there is something else between my rat of a boyfriend and the apartment wall. A woman, petite, gorgeous, blonde, no more than eighteen. He holds one arm out towards me, and crushes her slim frame against himself with the other. I feel the urge to laugh, and give in to it, letting my voice bounce off the walls, "Do you know how<em> pathetic_ you look?" I ask, holding in the giggles, "Trying to protect her like that? As if you were some storybook hero?"  
><em>

"_Medea..."_

"_Shut up!" I snap, and for a moment, I nearly step forward and ram the knife into him then and there. He flinches, cowering even further against the wall. Then I stop. Relax. Smile. "Be quiet now. If you make me angry, I'll kill you faster, and that's not what I want to do."_

_The woman, girl really, makes a little noise half-way between a sob and a squeak, and tugs at Henry's arm. I turn my blade on her, "Please stop that revolting whimpering noise or I'll cut out your tongue." She stops. I take a deep breath and force my smile wider, "So. Who's first?"_

I snap my eyes open, abruptly unsettled. So far my flashes of memory had been following more-or-less chronological order, following the course my dream had taken. Why the sudden skip? I went from being nine years old to twenty two, with a two year old daughter and a cheating boyfriend. For a normal person, perhaps the more worrying thing would be that I am dropping in and out of the past and not taking any notice. But trust me, it's something I've gotten used to. I stare up at the low, ugly wall of the asylum, and suddenly I would very much like to blow something up. Preferably the asylum itself. Preferably with all of the guards and most of the inmates still inside it. God I need a drink.


	3. Songs About Money

Hey guys, sorry about the delay with this chapter. I had GCSE exams, and then Duke of Ed, then prom and end of term stuff...but yeah, here it is. Hope you enjoy it. :)

**Shout-Outs: **Thanks to **CoconutMigration**and **C0nt0rt3dM1nd**for reviewing - I put in the conversation between Medea and the Joker for you. :)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Batman or any of its characters. Only Medea is mine.

* * *

><p><em>*Just for the record, the weather today is slightly sarcastic with a good chance of:<br>A. Indifference or B. Disinterest in what the critics say*_

**12****th**** November 2007**

Several dull weeks pass before the Joker and I see each other again, during which I am troubled by nightmares that I don't remember when I wake. The dream that troubled me on the night of his arrival has all but faded from memory, but the unease that came with it lingers. I feel unsettled, fidgety, and spend my time in my cell staring blankly at the opposite wall, trying to find the cause of my discomfort. When I go to my weekly sessions with the doc, I'm distracted, and he actually tricks me into telling him something, something about myself.

Irritated by my failure to remain indifferent over the last few weeks, I enter this session determined not to say a word. At first, I'm successful. As I enter, polite greetings are exchanged, followed by the stock question, "So, how was your week, Miss Craven?"

"Alright. I made a new friend."

"Indeed?"

"Yeah. He's called the Joker." I give a small snort of laughter, "And people call me crazy. At least I've never given myself two black eyes and dressed up like a clown."

"Do you like clowns, Medea?" The question, along with his use of my first name (a hitherto unprecedented event), surprises me so much that I give an honest reply, rather than one of my usual sarcastic comments: "You know what doc, I never have."

Almost too late, I see his pen flying across the page of his wretched little notebook and curse silently. I try and salvage the situation by tagging a nonchalant "But who knows – this one seems alright" on the end.

Sander hums thoughtfully, "Did you ever go to the circus with your father?" Again, I'm caught off guard by the sudden reference to my father, "No. My dad didn't like clowns either. He used to read me Greek myths instead..."

I'm thrown into the memory so quickly I almost get whiplash.

_I'm five years old, tucked up in bed, warm, safe and sleepy. My father sits on the edge of the duvet, a well-loved book of stories in hand. Not fairytale though, oh no, not those hackneyed old nursery rhymes. These are myths, no, they're fully blown legend: enchanting tales that speak of far-flung countries long ago, of mountain streams and rocky shores, and the delicate spirits that dwelt within them. Stories of gods and heroes, and kingdoms on mountain tops or at the bottom of the oceans. _

_Greek myths are not for the faint-hearted: there is magic and blood, sex and betrayal, and some parents would probably have hesitated before reading them to their children. But not in our household; for my father and I, only Heracles, Odysseus, Perseus and Jason would do. Who would listen to stories about Cinderella, Snow White and good fairies, when there was Atlanta, Andromeda and the gods to accompany me into sleep each night?_

"_But what happens next, daddy?" My five year old self demands, "How did Odysisseus get the lady to change them back into people?"_

"_Odysseus," my father corrects me, closing the book with a firm snap, "and you can find out tomorrow, Medea. Right now it's bed time." He sets the book aside and ruffles my hair with one hand, "You need your sleep kid."_

"_Can I have a hug, daddy?" He gives me a clumsy but tight embrace. My child's hands just meet around the back of his beefy neck. I bury my face in his shirt front, breathing in the mingled scent of car oil and cigarette smoke that hangs around him, permeating his clothes. It's not a pleasant smell, but it's comforting, familiar. The smell of my father. Then the hug is broken. He gets up, leaving the battered night-light glowing on the bedside table, and closes the door, clicking the big light off as he goes. Later that night I lie awake in my bed, staring at the peeling paint surface of my ceiling, listening to the sound of my mother's quiet sobs in the next room._

I blink, startled to suddenly find myself back in the uniform gray of the interview room, "Woah, doc. What have you been putting in the oatmeal?" I feel surprisingly hot – dizzy, flustered. I hate it – I hate feeling weak. For most of my life, that's what I was. Always passive, always the victim. But then I changed that. I made a choice and stole the power of my oppressors. Didn't I?

"Miss Craven?"

"I'm not feeling so good," I say, uneasy. The walls and ceiling seem to shift and slide, then wrap close around me, cocooning me. They're stiflingly close but achingly cold. I shiver and blink again, harder, trying to stop the world from spinning. '_Hate it,_' I think dazedly, feeling my top lip draw back from my teeth in a snarl.

"I hate to sound clichéd," my voice sounds odd, as if it's coming from a million miles away, "but the walls appear to be closing in." I put my hand to my head, my muscles trembling lightly but uncontrollably. Darkness begins to creep upon my vision, dimming the edges of my sight. What is this? This is something I've never experienced – I've blacked out and I've been knocked out, but I've never felt this odd...weakening, as if all my strength is being leeched out of me and I'm powerless to stop it. My heart picks up, apparently no happier with the situation than I am.

"Make it stop," I moan, pushing my chair back from the table, blinking frantically in an attempt to clear my sight.

Dr. Sander has gotten to his feet and moves slowly towards me, one hand cautiously outstretched, "Medea, I need you to remain calm. I've put a message through to the medical bay and someone should be here shortly. Just take deep breaths, and tell me, do you know what it was we were talking about just now that could have triggered this response?"

I glaze over, thinking about my father and Greek myths and clowns. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My vision is still blurring; the black at the edges is starting to spread, rushing inwards like the tide around a desert island. I sway in my chair and shake my head, furiously trying to clear it. "Doc?" My voice is an echo of my younger self; even as I say it, I hear the word from the past lurking underneath, just a second out of sync with here, with now: "Dad?" I can't be sure which word it is that came out of my mouth.

"What's happening to me?" I hate the desperation, the pathetic, childish weakness in my voice, but am helpless to stop it from painting my words. I'm displaced in time, losing my hold on the present. Of course I don't sound like an adult, I'm...how old am I? Twenty-two or twelve? Trapped in an asylum or hiding in that abandoned apartment in the Narrows or living on the streets, _off _the streets, finding food where I can, scrabbling through dumpsters like a rat, no like a _cockroach_...

Do I have a daughter? A daughter, what a ridiculous thought. I'm just a _little _thing, a little girl hiding from streetlamps. I'm safe in the shadows, because no one knows them like I do. No one...and as abruptly as the first, another memory rises up around me, swamping me.

_I slink through the darkness, pausing only as I spot the slightly more solid shadow at the corner of the alley, which mumbles drunkenly into the thick, fetid air of the Narrows. This Medea Craven is only eleven years old, and yet she already knows to avoid others. I haven't talked to anyone since I was nine – two years of silence. _

_Once I saw a gaggle of kids – kids like me, their hair clumsily brushed with fingers, dirt almost permanently engrained into their skin, skin already sallow and sickly. I watched them, considered going towards them, maybe trying to gain their trust...in that moment, I dimly allowed myself to remember the comfort of human company, of having another person that would look out for you and help you and maybe keep the nightmares away._

_But even as I dreamed that beautiful dream of sharing food, watching each others' backs, in essence, of having a family again, a loud crash echoed down the alley. Both the other kids and myself heard it; as one, we stiffened like startled cats and spun to find the source of the noise. A man, as dirty as us, his oversized coat ridden with holes and unravelling at the sleeves, lumbered towards us. He shouted something intelligible and shook his fist. Something shiny glinted in his hand. It could have been a knife – more likely it was just a piece of broken bottle. Either way, it had its intended effect._

_The gang of children sprinted away, the tallest boy stooping to lift a younger child into his arms as he ran. I hesitated, my heart aching with longing as I watched them leave...but then the man, seeing I hadn't left, lurched towards me, brandishing his weapon. I darted away, fear lending my feet speed. I swarmed up a fire escape and started working my way across the rooftops back to safer ground. From then on, I made sure to avoid the drunks. As useless and disorientated as they seemed, lying collapsed on the ground, they could be dangerous._

_With this memory in my mind, I step carefully around the muttering shadow. But my luck is not in tonight. As I move around him, his hand shoots out to grab at my ankle. I dodge, letting out a small cry as his thick fingers brush at my stolen shoes. As if encouraged by the sound of my voice, he stretches out again, his words becoming audible, just for a moment: "No place for a girl..."_

_Swallowing my revulsion, I back away, without noticing, towards the mouth of the alley. Light glimmers in the corner of my eye. A street lamp...I'm on the street. Panic grips me; I know the alleyways of the Narrows like the back of my hand, but the roads, where people walk and talk and laugh together...they are not my domain. Not anymore. I glance around wildly, wanting to dive back into the darkness. But I'm trapped. I'm stuck between a drunk homeless man and a streetlamp, and there are people, normal people walking past me, and giving strange looks to the grubby girl who stands hyperventilating on the sidewalk._

_The drunk's hand has now stretched out past the alley wall, and hangs in the harsh light of the street lamp. Somehow, it is a symbol, dirty, fraying, a symbol that represents all the pain and misery I have gone through here in Gotham. Here in this one, bizarre city where hell sits snugly side by side with heaven, and where the angels plot and cut deals with the devils down below. And we, all the ordinary people, are caught in between. Most of us, most of the time, live unaware of the battles waged around us. But sometimes, one of us will go missing. An ordinary person will unwittingly stumble into the dark, and when they come back, _if _they come back, will no longer be the same._

_And isn't that what happened to me?_

_The drunk mumbles something from the darkness of the alley. Crying, I take another step back, stumble on some hidden catch in the concrete, and feel strong arms catch me. I flinch, heart pumping fit to burst, already struggling to get free. A policeman? A stranger, someone even more dangerous than the homeless man because this one has the strength to catch me? I stamp on his foot, hard, and with a growl of pain, my captor spins me roughly around to face them._

"_Hey, kid, calm down...Medea? Honey? Jesus, kid, just look at you!"_

_I do not register his use of my first name, or the sound of recognition in his words. His voice rings no bells. Nothing about him is familiar. So I continue to wriggle, fighting to get away, terror building._

"_Medea! Stop fighting me, and look at me when I'm talking to you!" His voice raps out, somewhere between a shout and an animalistic snarl. Is it bad that this is what I recognise? Not his concern, not the endearments "kid" or "honey", but his anger? His flame-hot, bone-chilling rage. Whatever it means or whatever that says about my life, I _do _recognise it. My resistance falters, then stops, as, jaw dropping, eyes, staring, I look up at him, "Daddy?"_

_He looks different – his cheeks are hollow, and dark with stubble, his eyes bloodshot and sunken into their sockets. He looks scary, not like my daddy at all. He looks like the drunk man in the alley, like all the drunk men I've run from over the last two years. The appearance of this man is so fundamentally different from the father of my memories that I'm half-certain that this isn't him at all._

_And yet, beneath it all, the essence of my father _is_ tangible. I can taste it in the smell of car oil and cigarettes that still hangs around him, can see it in the arch of his thick brows over his eyes. And if I look past the drunken mist that clouds his gaze, I see the familiar irises that I inherited from him: a pale, silvery-gray, disturbingly penetrating._

_I suppose he is unchanged in the same way that I, even beneath my unkempt hair and pallid skin, my jutting wrists and ankles and ribs, am unchanged. Somewhere, deep inside me remains a fragment of the true Medea. It's small, and fragile, weakened by all the cold, hungry nights, the pain and the all-consuming fear that I have lived with for two years now. But it's still there. And somehow, that tiny part of myself recognises him in a way even more concrete than mere physical appearance._

_The shard of my almost forgotten soul reaches towards his in the same way that a magnet strains through empty space to reach its mate. I know now that this is my father – indeed, how could I ever have doubted it? – and I allow myself to be tugged towards him, relief that there is still someone who cares for me driving any fear of him out of my mind. Some dim, distant sense warns me that the stronger the attraction between two magnets and the longer they are held apart...the greater the collision will be when they finally come together. But I ignore that weak voice in my mind, falling into his familiar, tight embrace, "Daddy!"_

_He holds me tightly, and for this brief moment, I am simply aware of his love for me, and how much I have missed him._

I smile dimly to myself as the scene fades: at that point, at that moment that I fell so trustingly into his arms, my father had killed three people. The first was my mother. The second was a young woman. She died of acid burns – interestingly enough, the same way that Jason's new lover was killed by Medea in Greek mythology. Third and most recent was a boy – and his death was horrible, reminiscent of the way Medea killed her little brother to delay her father's ships while she and Jason escaped. It was only after his murder was unearthed that Gotham PD detectives first suggested the possibility that the killer was reusing old ideas – ideas from Greek mythology, no less.

"Miss Craven!"

The darkness is almost total now. It's as if my vision is undergoing some sort of eclipse. I'm slumped forward over the table, watching my already limited view of the far wall grow fainter and fainter. Gathering my strength, I stagger to my feet, reeling dangerously as I back away from Sander.

"Hey, doc? No more Greek myths, okay? I don't think they're good for me..."

It's too much. I collapse on the cool gray floor, uncaring, unconcerned with the pain that rockets through my skull as it collides with the floor; instead, I simply welcome the oblivion of unconsciousness, knowing that I will not dream. It is an encouraging thought.

* * *

><p>I wake up in the medical bay. It's the only place in Arkham I've never been before. I study it with a dull interest. There must be other beds in this ward, but they are hidden from me by the papery blue screens that hang on either side of me. My lips twitch into an unpleasant smile. It reminds me of when I had Louise, lying in a similar bed in a similar room. Is it me, or do all doctors look the same? I consider the doctor currently striding towards me, clipboard in hand. Maybe it's just their irritating air of efficiency that gives them a familial resemblance. Sighing, I close my eyes, wishing half-heartedly that he will pass me by, that he'll just keep walking...but he doesn't.<p>

"Miss Craven?" Frustration pulsing in my veins, I snap my eyes open, and stare at him hard. He returns my gaze evenly, waiting for some sign of consent, of surrender. Grudgingly impressed by his stoicism, I nod once, quickly. The examination is mercifully brief. He listens to my heart, listens to my breathing, and changes the IV that I only now realise is sticking out of my arm. I observe the clear tube that pierces my arm with fascinated horror, my mouth half open in an inexplicable disgust. I can feel it, inside and outside my arm, thick and horrible and stiff.

"Why don't you go back to sleep," the doctor suggests, watching me with unreadable eyes. I drag my eyes away from my forearm to meet his gaze. This time, he cannot hold my stare. He looks away, strands of his soft blonde hair falling into his eyes. I start to laugh, first only chuckling, then giggling, then out and out laughing until I am practically screaming, my entire body shaking with it. I continue to laugh as my doctor grabs my arms in an attempt to hold me still, shouting over his shoulder to an invisible colleague. Another man grabs my legs, which are twitching spastically, and holds them down, while a third grabs my left arm. Only when I feel the needle prick my arm do I quiet, as I'm sucked once again into ebony blackness.

* * *

><p>The second time I wake, he's there beside my bed; I can hear his breathing, but more than that, I simply sense him, picking up all those little things that come with the presence of another person: heat and bulk and that prickling feeling on the back of my neck of being watched. At first I just listen, keeping my eyes closed, my breathing slow, even, deep. He hums to himself, nursery rhymes, and little ditties of his own invention – at least, this is all I can suppose from the harsh, rambling melodies. Every so often he breaks off, something muttering to himself, sometimes laughing under his breath. And all the time I feel his eyes on me – it is as if his gaze has a physical weight, a mass that can be felt as he watches me.<p>

After a while, bored of this waiting game, I open my eyes a crack, peering through the pale fringe of my eyelashes. He sits on a stool, one leg on the foot bar, the other tapping an eerily irregular beat of the floor. It sounds almost like there should be meaning behind that noise, that there is a message there if only it can be found. Like Morse code. Tat-a-tat. Pause. Tat-tat-a-tat. Pause Tat. Tat. Pause.

But while I'm waiting for the next pattern, the nest word in the sentence if you will, I hear footsteps, loud enough to drown out the sound. Sharp, quick, efficient. My hands clench slightly, subtly, and I fight the urge to growl. Not only do all doctors look the same – they walk the same too. It doesn't matter what kind of doctor they are; the arrogance, the cocky acknowledgement of their own cleverness is the same.

My suspicions are confirmed by my unlikely companion, who addresses the newcomer as he draws closer, "How's she doing, doc? Not at death's," here his speech is broken by a tiny, childish giggle, that breaks the façade of concern, "door yet, huh?"

I wonder why they've allowed him to come and see me. He can't be getting rewards for good behaviour yet, can he? Then again, I shouldn't assume that he wants to be here. I suppress the desire to snort with laughter: perhaps his shrink thinks that tending to a sick "colleague" (for lack of a better word), will make him a better person. Just the sort of thing a shrink would do, though the success of this plan is doubtful, to say the least.

I can hear the doctor's discomfort at his presence in his reply, "No..." he struggles to find a way to address the criminal psychopath sitting quietly beside my bed and comes up with, "Mr J. She'll be fine. Just a fainting spell. She had low blood sugar levels when she was brought in..."

Well, you can hardly blame me. It's not like kindergarten, we don't get given cookies every five minutes. And if they wanted me to eat more of the food they should have tried to make something that didn't look like vomit. From his perch, Joker titters regretfully and I feel his eyes on me again, his gaze more intense than ever, "Wha_t_ a silly little girl." His voice is no longer maniacally cheerful; the sound drops an octave, until it's so deep I can almost feel it in my chest. It's threatening, dangerous...alluring.

Apparently, the doctor catches only the first two, because as he leans forward to check the flow from my IV above my head, I feel him tremble. Pathetic. He must be new to this job; all the other doctors here are much more professional.

Suddenly, I feel a hand on my forearm, warm and rough against my skin. And strong: I can feel the power in the fingers that loosely circle my wrist. Enough to crush it, if the owner of the hand so wished. My arms prickle as a wave of goosebumps appears on them, and I hear a quick breath from beside me that could be stifled laughter.

"What are you doing?" The doctor's voice is sharp with reprimand, but with fear too. The sound of his terror is like poison in a glass of water; hidden, and yet present in every syllable he utters. The grip on my wrist loosens, and slips down to my hand, which Joker pats condescendingly, "Just, ah, trying to give the _poor_ little thing some comfor_t_." The threatening tone has gone out of his voice for now – instead, he's ingratiating. His shadow falls over me as he leans forward, still patting my hand and making shushing noises, as if soothing a restless child. I can't help but appreciate the display, knowing what it will do to set the doctor on edge.

"Right." The fear is clearer in his voice, closer now, almost bubbling over. It's funny, really. He's practically running away, "I'll be back to check on her in an hour. There'll be other doctors in the ward at all times so if you notice anything...I mean..." he's backing away, his voice and footsteps growing simultaneously fainter, "or if she wakes up..." His voice disappears altogether, and I hear a door open, then shut.

Joker explodes into hysterical, if slightly muted laughter that swoops gratingly between octaves, loud but not altogether unpleasant against my ears. Slowly, his mirth dies down to sporadic giggles, and he finds the breath to speak, "Oh, Medea? Open your eyes!" He croons.

Already impatient with the pretence and seeing no point in fighting him, not with that rough, powerful hand still on mine, I do as he says, and stare up at his handsome, mutilated face. "Hello, dear," I say coolly, "how thoughtful of you to visit." I suppose it's odd, but I am actually rather pleased to see him. He's already brought some excitement in what threatened to be an impossibly boring stay.

"I know," he beams, gleeful, "my, ah, shrink suggested I come along and meet some of my fellow inmates, and I heard that you were taking a little vacation in here, so I thought I'd come say..." he grins and licks his lips with that quick, darting tongue, "hi."

"Your doc thought that would be a good idea?" I raise an eyebrow, seriously doubting the guy's judgement.

"Oh yes," he says earnestly, leaning down towards me, "her name sounds like harlequin." He starts to laugh again, gripping the rail on the side of my bed for balance. I watch him carefully, as carefully as I once watched those drunk men, those filthy vagrants on the streets of the Narrows. Because though we've only just met, I feel I already know this man – and though he's laughing now, any second, that could, and probably will, change.

So, I smile politely, while watching him like a bird watches a snake, "I see. And why exactly did you want to come and see me, Joker?"

And suddenly he's right there in front of me, his face inches from mine. As abruptly as the laughter came, it's gone, and his gray-green eyes flash fire at me, "Well, Medea," he growls, "you seem to be pretty well settled here, don't you. Pretty...comfortable." He sounds out each syllable of the word, all the while staring directly into my eyes, trying to intimidate me, "And I decided...well, I wasn't quite happy with that. Not at all." His lips twitch into what could possibly be described as a smile, "Do you know what I mean?"

"I suppose I do," I say cautiously, the polite smile dropping from my face a little. Internally, I'm vaguely disgusted with my own compliance, my willingness to agree with him...but it's better that than to anger him unnecessarily. I like danger; it adds a touch of excitement into my otherwise boring life – but I've never been reckless.

"So I decided, and I _hope _that you won't mind, that I was going to, ah...remove you from your comfy little place here at Arkham. But that wouldn't be any fun if you didn't know I was doing it, so, I came to tell you."

"How gentlemanly of you," I agree, evenly, watching the way his knuckles stand out white on the bar next to me, the bulge of his eyes and the pallor in his cheeks, "Only, and I do hope this won't be a problem for you, but I don't think that I'm going to like that." I shrug my shoulders apologetically, "So it looks like we have a bit of a problem."

He grins, scars tugging at his cheeks and relaxes, settling back on his stool to watch me, "No, but you see, Medea, that was exactly what I was hoping you'd say." His next action is utterly unexpected. His hand snaps out and grabs me hard by the face, crushing my jaw. It _hurts_. My breath comes in a startled gasp and my eyelids flutter shut, then open again in my surprise. It's the first time someone has physically hurt me in over two years. It's shocking.

"I'm going to enjoy taking you down, Medea Craven," he says happily, "you won't be the queen of the castle anymore."

"I'm sure I can handle it," I reply, struggling to regain my composure – because in truth, I am anything but sure of this. My words are muffled, with his fingers still digging into my chin, "And in any case, I don't think you'll be able to turn the, common folk, shall we say, as easily as you believe."

"You wouldn't know," he laughs, squeezing my face cruelly, "you've never deigned to speak to them."

"True, but they've known me for years," I say, disdainfully, "you, on the other hand, are new. Unimportant. A nobody."

He leans towards me again, smiling, "That's where you're wrong, my dear. Don't you remember our little conversation in the, ah, cafeteria? I think they'll come round to, ha ha, _my_ way of thinking soon enough. And I think you will too." Releasing his grip on my jaw, he pats my head condescendingly, before turning around and calling one of the doctors patrolling the ward over, "I'll be going now."

"I'll fetch a guard," the doctor says, casting a quick glance over me before striding off towards the end of the ward. I stare at Joker, not quite sure what to make of this meeting. He stares back, eyes glittering with anticipation, but giving nothing away. I frown slightly, trying to puzzle him out. While it's clear he intends to ruin my comfortably safe existence here at Arkham, I have no idea what he intends to do with me afterwards. Which is actually...rather exciting.

So I smile at him as he gets to his feet, and as the guard locks his hands in front of him, I send him away with these words, "I look forward to our next meeting, Joker. Something tells me it's going to be...fun." He grins at me, clearly delighted that I'm going to play his game. It should probably worry me that I don't know all the rules.


End file.
